


every time a bell rings

by fishydwarrows



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game), It's a Wonderful Life (1946)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - It's a Wonderful Life Fusion, Christianity, Depression, Drinking, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, References to Depression, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 13:52:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fishydwarrows/pseuds/fishydwarrows
Summary: Hank Anderson tries to kill himself on a cold Christmas night. He is faced with the reality of a world without him.





	every time a bell rings

**Author's Note:**

> As an addendum to this fic, you can now listen to a podfic version of it _[ right here](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1G6dG6wlSbvBqJCdbfM6dSRgeKKkptIpK/view?usp=sharing)_
> 
> please consider listening! ^^)/ and thank you for reading!

After the revolution, things just sort of…fall into place.

 

If you asked him, Hank couldn’t really find the words to describe it. It was like all of the sudden some great oppressive presence had been lifted. No longer did his actions feel weighed down – he was light, feather light.

 

Also, busy.

 

Very, very busy.

 

Most of November and all of December and January passed by too quickly for him to pay much notice to things. There was the reinstitution of Jericho. Senate hearings. Congressional caucuses. Executive orders. New cases: these he anticipated. But it still was a punch to the gut every time he and Connor were called to the scene and red mingled with blue on the ground.

 

Hate crimes: lots of them; both android and human alike. Hank supposed it was to be expected.

 

Deviancy, though spreadable, was triggered usually by self-defensive actions, acts of violence. The irony of it all was that the more he wanted to drink, the more he didn’t.

 

Ever since Connor had found him passed out drunk, useless, disgusting, Hank had forgone alcohol in its entirety. It was another reason he hadn’t noticed November, December and January.

 

And there was a third reason too.

 

Connor.

 

Connor, who had found him by Chickenfeed and had smiled so softly, so sweetly at him. Connor who had briefly grasped Hank’s hand after a particularly gruesome scene, and who had held his questioning gaze unshakable and sure. His dark eyes had reflected the garish green of an old fluorescent above them, while his LED spun round and round: blue, yellow, blue.

 

So, the snow melted and so did Hank’s carefully constructed boundaries. Turns out it’s kind of hard to keep your feelings in check when you live with a robot discovering feelings for the first time.

 

Initially, they had lived separately.

 

Hank had encouraged it; it wasn’t healthy - latching onto someone – and he was by far the worst to latch onto. Connor had lived at Jericho – New Jericho – for a time at least. Enough to form some opinions and get some hobbies and not to mention, friends other than Hank.

 

It hurt, for a little while. Hank admitted it to himself later. But some people say that distance makes the heart grow fonder, and it did. They saw less of each other, yes, but that just meant they could linger on the moments they did have.

 

A playful jab.

 

A snorting laugh.

 

A soft, sweet smile.

 

It was Connor who made the first move. He had asked Hank to teach him how to dance, and Hank, like a sap, had complied. They went through a range of music styles that night: from Buffalo Gals jiving on the record to Ella Fitzgerald crooning through the dimly lit house. They had ended slow dancing and Hank had noticed Connor’s LED whirling yellow, yellow, yellow.

 

“Cat got your tongue?” Hank had said _sotto voce_. Their bodies had pressed together - there was no reason for the closeness, it just existed between them, as natural for Hank as breathing.

 

“Excuse me for this.” Connor had murmured and then leaned in. It wasn’t the best kiss, but it was their first.

 

-

 

“It was only a matter of time,” Ben Collins had smiled when Hank had told him. Hank had smiled too, something he hadn’t done in a while. And then he frowned quite a bit when they had to go to HR over it.

 

Technicalities were a real bitch, to say the least. The executive order halting the android camps had been a rush job. In the majority public eye, androids were now people: in the eyes of the law, they were still property. Thanks – or not – to that loophole, Connor and Hank were allowed to stay partners on the beat. (At least until the official personhood laws went through.)

 

The year continued, and Connor moved in. Together they fronted the Android Crimes Division, it was hard but good work.

 

They made a good team.

 

A great one.

 

Hank found himself wrapped up in the motion of things. The work, the relationship, the friends. But, the work slowed, and Connor and Hank became comfortable. His life was good.

 

However, life can’t stay memories; life is memories, experiences, lives loved and lost. December came, and with it the sounds of tire spinning on ice, spinning out of control. The harsh light of headlights, the sickening crunch of body and car and truck and asphalt.

 

December came, and Hank began to drink again.

 

Again, and again, and again.

 

His life was good then, but this, this is now.

  
-

  
It’s almost midnight on Christmas Eve and Hank Anderson is drunk. Drunk with a capital “d.”

 

He wanders around the park Cole had loved so much. He cannot sit still, he fidgets, he paces. He cuts his finger on a rusty nail and curses. God knows when he got his last tetanus shot – 2017 or some shit like that. He finds the idea of imminent illness not a bad one.

 

He wants – He doesn’t know what he wants.

 

His mind is addled, fuzzy from alcohol. He wants, he wants to see Cole.

 

God, he misses him so damn much.

 

His stupid little cowlick.

 

His bright eyes.

 

His boney little arms.

 

He wishes – he wishes a lot of things.

 

He wishes Cole were alive.

 

He wishes he were a better partner.

 

He wishes…

 

He wishes…

 

He wishes he were dead.

 

No…

 

_He wishes he had never been born at all_.

 

The thought rings sharp in his mind and it’s true. Truer than anything he’s felt in the last three days when he fucking relapsed right back into alcoholism like some damn weak idiot.

 

Connor knows because _of course Connor fucking knows._  He’s built with a fucking breathalyzer and crime lab in his mouth and he knew when they kissed on Thursday, and he knew Friday, Saturday, and today: Sunday.

 

“Fuck.” Hank swears and staggers towards the rail overlooking the lake.

 

He didn’t bring any beer, stupid, stupid. Jimmy had cut him off, given him a look, and called him a cab. Maybe he called Connor. Hank doesn’t know if he wants Connor to see him like this or not. He doesn’t want to see Connor. He doesn’t want to see anyone.

 

He wants it to be over with.

 

Russian roulette is a game of chance.

 

He doesn’t even deserve a chance.

 

He’s had too many, and he’s fucked them all up.

 

He climbs over the railing and grips the metal reluctantly. His finger pulses dully where he cut it. He notices vaguely that it’s snowing. The white blurs with the lights in his fucked vision. His head swims and Hank shifts slightly on the edge. He lifts his foot slightly.

 

A decision, a decision.

 

He has to make it.

 

Then, in the corner of his eye he sees a figure; and before he can even process it there’s a splashing sound. The person struggles in the water. His eyes widen, and his lately left sobriety returns in a stark moment of clarity as he dives after them.

 

He swims and its instinct.

 

He grabs them and its instinct.

 

He climbs the safety ladder, clothes soaking, shivering to his core, and it’s just instinct.

 

And then he’s on his hands and knees and it isn’t snowing anymore but good God he’s freezing and it’s awful.

 

A hand pokes into his vision and drags him up steadily. It’s not warm, not freezing, and it definitely doesn’t feel like someone who was just about to drown a few rushed minutes ago.

 

Hank finally looks up into the face of his victim: an android. It’s a common one – she looks like one of the models Kamski had owned back when – but he doesn’t think about that. Instead he huffs and says weakly: “What the hell were you thinking?”

 

“Of you,” she says and smiles at him gently. Her LED is a rotating blue so she’s not in distress, but Hank sure as hell is.

 

“The fuck,” he chokes out, “do you mean by me?”

 

Her eyes twinkle.

 

“Me?” he clambers to his feet, “what’s so special about me?” Hank says bitterly.

 

The android cocks her head to one side and frowns slightly, slightly.

 

“You were going to kill yourself, Lieutenant Anderson. I saved you.”

 

Hank wobbly sits down on the park bench and rubs at his face. He’d read somewhere – or maybe even watched on MythBusters or some shit – that cold water is actually bad for hangovers, but he feels fine. Cold, yes, but he feels clearer than he has in three days. It feels like he’s sober. Yet this android makes no fucking sense.

 

She approaches him and smiles again. It’s disarming and seemingly well-intentioned. Hank decides he doesn’t trust it.

 

“You jumped in…to save me?” he says incredulously.

 

“Well, it worked didn’t it? You didn’t go through with it.” The android says and sits by his side.

 

“Go through with…”

 

“With suicide.”

 

He sits silently. The snow had stopped when Hank had breached the water. The night is clear.

 

“Who,” he begins.

 

“Who are you anyway?”

 

The android smiles.

 

“My name is Chloe. I’ve come to help you, Lieutenant.”

 

Hank laughs, it’s a sad, tired sound.

 

“Help, huh? How are you gonna “help” me, if you don’t mind me askin’?”

 

Chloe sits straight on the bench, a knowing light in her eyes. Hank is reminded of that oppressive presence from before, that weight, that heaviness from the time of the revolution.

 

“I granted your wish, didn’t I?” she says, matter of fact, like granting wishes is something she does on the regular.

 

“It was simple really. I erased your game file. You’ve never existed.”

 

Hank snorts.

 

“Yeah,” he drawls, “yeah, you just “deleted” my game file like I’m in some fuckin’ video game, huh?”

 

Chloe nods.

 

“What kind of fucked up game would have a washed-up old shit as me as a character?”

 

Chloe shrugs, “This game apparently. But I’ve given you this. You don’t exist anymore, Hank Anderson, isn’t that what you wanted?”

 

Hank thinks: this is crazy, this is stupid. But he notices the sincerity in her words. Whoever this Chloe is, she believes her own words wholly. And Hank wants to think that this is all just some shitty alcohol induced dream, but the water woke him up, the stress woke him up.

 

_I’m awake._

 

He knows this.

 

So, fuck it – he’ll go along with it; his life’s some dumb videogame? Why not. There are worse things to believe.

 

“Sure,” he says not really believing, “Alright, kid. But, why are you doing this anyhow?” Hank rubs at his cut hand, it doesn’t hurt anymore. Huh.

 

“For you. For myself. I can only travel so far. I want to be free.” Chloe says, her hands curling in her lap.

 

“And the only way you can be free is by…making me not exist?” Hank drags a hand across his face. It’s almost midnight.

 

“In a way,” she says and then stands. “I can tell you don’t believe me, Lieutenant.”

 

Chloe smiles.

 

“Walk with me?”

 

Hank looks at her uncertainly.

 

“I only wish to enlighten you. To provide proof.”

 

She extends a hand towards him.

 

There is a pause.

 

But he nods.

 

Once.

 

And takes it.

  
-

  
The city of Detroit is bright with activity. As they gain on it, Hank begins to notice something.

 

The androids: the androids.

 

They’re everywhere, but not like usual.

 

Nowadays you’ll see androids and humans alike – struggling together, living together, equal.

 

Androids have been modifying themselves. Altered faces: tattoos, piercings. Changing their hair to bright colors. Rebellious and loud in their defiance, in their personhood, in their life. Deactivating their skin. It’s not uncommon to see flashes of bone-white in the sea of skin tones.

 

These androids: these androids.

 

They’re like before.

 

Blank.

 

Emotionless.

 

Their LEDs, their blue armbands, their non-descript clothes.

 

It’s all like before.

 

Hank feels sick.

 

At his side, Chloe schools her expression. It’s blank, searching, but when she turns to him, she smiles apologetically. Like this isn’t horrifying. Like it’s _fine_.

 

Hank looks around frantically.

 

It’s a trick, some dumb joke. It has to be. It has to be. He spots a familiar street sign and his feet start moving of their own accord.

 

The precinct.

 

Someone: Jefferey, Chris, Ben, RK900, Chen – hell, even Reed, would tell him it’s just a stupid joke. Just some fucked up joke.

 

He rushes through the glass doors and pushes through the turnstile. An android begins saying: “Sir, you are not authorized to—” but he ignores it.

 

He slows once inside.

 

What he expects is this: the stupid strings of Christmas lights above the arch to the break room, the mini fridge that houses thirium where the android parking stations used to be. He expects to see Connor’s desk, just across from his own, covered in photographs –digital and physical—and those dumb Pinterest homecrafts that Hank complains about but secretly finds endearing. He expects these things because they’re supposed to be there. They’re supposed to be there but they’re not.

 

From the corner of his eye he spots the framed picture of his Red Ice taskforce.

 

He’s not even in it.

 

His own desk isn’t even there.

 

The whole room’s set up wrong: backwards, inside-out. There’s androids there, but just as before they’re blank, emotionless. They stand serenely against the back wall, some with their eyes open, some shut. Hank stands in the precinct and breathes very slowly.

 

He looks around again, this time for the people. He sees Reed, hunched over a terminal, and in his peripheral he sees Jeffrey making his way over.

 

_Thank God_. Hank thinks.

 

“Thank God,” he laughs, strained and forced.

 

“Jeff, if this is some kind of joke, it’s a shit one.”

 

Jeffrey's eyes widen.

 

“Can I help you, sir?” he says and gestures to a nearby chair, “Have you had some kind of accident?”

 

Hank laughs again, this time incredulously.

 

“Jeff – Jeffrey you can’t be serious. You can drop the act.”

 

Jeffery doesn’t stop pointing to the chair. Hank bristles.

 

“I get it. Whoop-de-fuckin’-doo. Anderson pranked! Well, you got me. So. Stop it.”

 

Jeffery frowns, “Sir, if you’re not in need of immediate assistance I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

 

Hank runs a hand down his face.

 

“Jeff – Jeff, you – you’re my best friend. I’ve known you and your wife Rita since before you ever dated. We rose in the ranks together, Jeff.” he steps close.

 

“It’s me, Jeff. You know me.”

 

Jeffrey crosses his arms and frowns.

 

“Sir, I don’t know how in the hell you know me or my wife’s name but if you don’t leave now, I will take pains to have you removed by force.” Hank’s hands ball at his sides and he grits his teeth.

 

“God damn it, Jeff. You know me. And—and I know Reed too. He’s a douche and a hard-ass but he’s a damn good detective to boot.”

 

At this, Reed looks up from his desk alarmed.

 

“This guy giving you trouble, Captain?” he says.

 

Dread sinks into Hank’s gut.

 

He’d thought that at least Reed – fuckin’ idiot Reed would give up the ghost and ruin the joke. But, it’s not a joke. It’s not.

 

“Sir, I’m going to ask you one more time to leave.” Jeffrey says and Hank only half listens. He barely hears what Reed says in response because this whole time, this whole God damn time he hadn’t spared a thought to where Connor was. He just assumed. Just assumed but –.

 

“Connor. Oh God.” Hank murmurs to himself. He looks up at Jeffrey (but it’s not Jeff—not his friend).

 

“I have – I have to go home.” he says and turns and leaves. Hank calls a taxi and he sees it when he steps out – 115 Michigan Drive.

 

Connor is there; _he has to be there_. They hadn’t had a fight, but he had left Connor at home with Sumo – given some bullshit excuse about doing some last-minute shopping and took a taxi to Jimmy’s bar that night. This night. A few hours ago. It was only a few hours ago.

 

Connor has to be here, he has to.

 

The house, the house still looks the same but it’s different, just like everything else.

 

There’s Christmas lights but they’re bright, too bright. There’s some dumb looking ornaments hanging from the roof and some fuckin’ blowup in the front yard. And in the window Hank can see the shadow of a family.

 

There’s no Sumo.

 

There’s no Connor.

 

Hank stares a bit more but stops – he feels like a fucking creep. It’s not his home. It’s not his family in that house. He backs away from it and shivers and wonders for the first time if he really did die. Maybe this is some fucked up Hell. (and he deserves it – the worst part is that he feels keenly like he deserves it.) But then there’s a hand on his shoulder and Hank starts.

 

It’s Chloe again.

 

How the hell she got here, he’s not sure.

 

She smiles sadly at him and something in him snaps.

 

He grips the collar of her dress and hoists her in the air.

 

“Where’s Connor!” he yells.

 

He doesn’t care if the whole neighborhood, if the whole of Michigan hears him.

 

“Where is he!”

 

Chloe shakes her head – her eyes wide. He shakes her, shakes her, stops.

 

“Please…” Hank says, letting her to the ground, voice breaking.

 

“Show me where he is.”

 

They stand together in the clear night air. Hank breathes hard and fast. (and in that terrible moment he realizes, the whole time they’ve been together: he’s never told Connor he loves him. Because he does. He loves him. _Oh God, he loves him_.)

 

The night seems to stall and grow long. Hank uncurls his hands from Chloe’s collar: ashamed, mortified, hurting. She looks at him warily, but at last, nods.

 

-

 

The world tilts and they’re not anywhere.

 

_Outside the game_ , something in Hank remarks.

 

Separate.

 

He could go anywhere.

 

The world is white, white, white. But then Hank blinks and he realizes its snow; vicious white snow, falling fast.

 

They’re in a garden, standing on some dumb modern art type bridge. It’s a barren place: no flowers, no roses. All he sees are a cluster of graves and figure slumped half-upright on a frozen lake.

 

Chloe takes his hand and Hank let’s her guide him to the graves. The figure in the corner of his vision does not move.

 

“Connor was paired with another officer in the deviancy case.” Chloe’s soft voice breaks through the cold and the snow.

 

He falls to his knees.

 

“He was dedicated to the mission, he completed it at any expense...” Hank doesn’t look but he can hear her frown: “but machines are meant to be broken and replaced, after all.”

 

He stares at the graves; they all have the same name – different dates, different serial numbers. There’s some kind of cruelty in the descriptions: Mark (1), Mark (2), Mark (3) … There’s eight graves. Eight whole times that Connor—.

 

 

“He wiped out the deviants," Chloe says and she closes her eyes. Hank lets out a shuddering breath.

 

"Cyberlife decided afterwards that their RK800 project was too expensive to continue." A final fight rouses in him, a denial.

 

“No.” Hank growls (but it’s a broken, desperate sound.)

 

“No, Connor deviated. He saved countless people. He turned the tide of the Revolution.” Chloe kneels beside him and smiles sadly, always sadly.

 

“Connor wasn’t there to save the android revolution because you weren’t there to save him.”

 

“No,” Hank shudders.

 

“They decommissioned him.” Chloe says, and it’s almost drowned out – by the wind, by the thudding in his chest.

 

Hank knows - knows where Connor is - he's right behind him.

 

Kneeling on the ice.

 

Frozen.

 

Dead.

 

Dead eight times over bodily and dead fully.

 

Truly dead.

 

Hank shuts his eyes and feels the cool snow at his fingers.

 

He doesn’t scream, doesn’t yell.

 

He can’t.

 

He just kneels.

 

(just like Connor.)

 

He sits there in the garden for a long, long time.

 

Time passes.

 

Or it doesn’t.

 

He doesn’t – it doesn’t matter.

 

_He doesn’t care._

 

Chloe moves to touch his shoulder and Hank jerks back like he’s been burned. (but he hasn’t. He just feels cold. So, so cold.)

 

“I want to leave.” he whispers.

 

“Go!” he roars and as he does the world tilts.

 

-

 

He’s back in Detroit. But the cold lingers. It lingers so he runs.

 

He runs, and he runs and runs until he’s back at the park.

 

It’s the same but it’s not.

 

It’s all the same _but it’s not_.

 

A swing creaks and Hank realizes the worst of all: if he doesn’t exist neither does _Cole_.

 

And that thought – that is the thought that makes him blindly reach for the rail once more.

 

He doesn’t climb over it this time. What use is death to someone that doesn’t exist? He merely slumps against it and clasps his hands together like in prayer, like somehow that’ll help. He clasps his hands and they knuckle white with pressure.

 

It’s too much.

 

It’s all too much.

 

“Take me back,” he yells into the night.

 

It was snowing when he tried to die.

 

It isn’t snowing now.

 

But it’s cold, so cold.

 

“Take me back,” he says and cries. He shakes and sobs. He presses his hands to the cool railing.

 

“God,” Hank croaks, “God.” He says, like he actually believes someone's listening.

 

 

“I want to live again.” He half mumbles to himself.

 

“Please, God, I want to live again.” He cries in the night.

 

Until.

 

Until he feels cold on his cheek.

 

A snowflake.

 

It startles him.

 

He looks up and the sky is cloudy when before it was clear.

 

There's snow in his hair and snow on his jacket and snow on his face.

 

And Hank - who was just crying from a grief so deep and so dark: laughs deliriously in the cold snowy night.

 

He jerks from the rail and runs.

 

He doesn’t check his phone, doesn’t call a cab. He runs and runs and runs the two miles from the park to his home. When he gets there, he sees people in the windows and his heart clenches, but he has to be right, he has to be.

 

He pulls out his keys and fumbles them into the lock, his hand pulsing from where he cut it – where he cut it. With a jerk and a push, the door opens and he’s inside.

 

His living room is flooded with people. And as he enters, he’s bombarded by shouts and hugs and expletives.

 

Jeffrey and Rita, they rise from the couch and Reed shouts at him from the kitchen where RK900 stands. Chris and Ben and Chen and Wilson and everyone: they’re here.

 

“Hank!” Jeffrey says, grabbing him by the arms and pulling him into a hug.

 

“Where the hell have you been?”

 

Hank shakes his head. He looks around.

 

“Where’s Connor?” he says, a deep fear rising again in his gut.

 

"Out there, looking for you. You didn't answer your damn phone." Jeffrey says, and Hank looks at it - there's at least 127 texts from Connor and several missed calls.

 

"Hank!" a voice says softly behind him.

 

He turns and there's Connor - wonderful beautiful handsome Connor and he's alive.

 

_He's alive._

 

He moves forward and hugs him tightly, like he could disappear, like he disappeared.

 

"Hank, I've been searching for 3:28:08-" Connor begins but Hank just hugs him tighter.

 

"Oh." Connor says and Hank can feel him lean into the touch.

 

He missed this.

 

He missed him.

 

"I’m so glad you’re safe." Connor whispers.

 

Hank squeezes his eyes shut, afraid to cry, afraid it's all a dream. They stand there quietly together.

 

Hank knows: he should say it.

 

He has to say it.

 

“Connor..." He begins, and Hank feels the eyes of several of his closest friends on him, but damn it. He doesn't care.

 

He pulls Connor close again - so tight he would be worried of breaking him.

 

He pauses again: afraid.

 

But afraid was not being here.

 

Afraid was being alone in a world where no one knew him, where he didn't exist.

 

"I love you." he says -and his voice hitches on the last word.

 

“I love you so fucking much. I want you to know that. I need you to know that. I love you, Connor."

 

Connor stills for a few seconds, and Hank's eyes are shut tight, but he can tell Connor's processing and processing quickly. Then Connor hugs him back just as fiercely. His back twinges with the force but it's good, _it's good._

 

"I love you too." Connor says.

 

They separate and Hank looks around his home.

 

His friends, his family are here. They're all here for him.

 

They cared and they worried and they came and Hank thought his life was shitty but it's not, it's not.

 

_It's wonderful_.

**Author's Note:**

> it's a wonderful life is one of my favorite Christmas movies - it never fails to make me cry lol so thank you for reading my take on it! 
> 
> edit: art by me! (since lol, i made up this au at the end of november)
> 
> Please leave a comment if you enjoyed it! 
> 
> Thank you!
> 
> Happy Holidays!!


End file.
